


On the side of the angels

by AnythingButPink



Category: Eternal Law, The Professionals
Genre: Early Days, First Time, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Demons and angels. Different sides of the same coin in my book," he said.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Indeed, Doyle. So, what do you say? Fancy joining the A Squad?"</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Doyle smiled. "Where do I sign?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the side of the angels

**Author's Note:**

> Story DNA is 95% Professionals - no previous knowledge of Eternal Law required.

The operation had gone to hell. What should have been a straightforward snatch of a kid had turned into an all-guns-blazing shootout with an extra hostage and the little girl nowhere in sight.

“Fucking flatfoot,” muttered Bodie as he crouched behind the brown Rover, reloading his Browning.

Behind him, perched ready to provide covering fire, his partner rolled his eyes. “Ready?”

Bodie looked over his shoulder at him and nodded a brusque affirmative. As he heard the Browning start to bark behind him, he sprinted towards the warehouse and threw himself against the wall, weapon raised for anyone foolish enough to stick their head out.

The second Browning fell silent. He waited for another mag to be shoved in and saw a dark head raise itself above the boot of the Rover. Another magazine emptied into the vast open doorway. Bodie nodded curtly in the direction of the car and eased himself towards the opening. A flicker of movement caught his eye, he shifted slightly, pulled the trigger and watched a portly man in a cheap, ill-fighting suit fall to the floor.

A quick reccie revealed a stack of metal drums just inside the door. He dropped and rolled behind them. The warehouse was quieter now. The only sounds the quiet sobs of the girl, the distinctive Irish brogue of O'Donnell demanding answers to his questions and, he guessed, the voice of the copper who clearly had an enormous talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Bodie scanned the space. They had already downed three of O'Donnell's thugs. Two more flanked the Thug-in-Chief, who was holding the girl like a parcel for posting, under one muscled arm. O'Donnell's second-in-command had an arm locked around the copper's neck and a pistol pushed into his flank.

His instinct was to shoot O'Donnell in the head and then mop up the rest of the bastards, but Cowley had been explicit in his orders that if only one person came out of this operation alive, it had to be O'Donnell.

Bodie raised his gun, took aim, and killed the first of the flankers. O'Donnell and his men spun as one and unleashed a hail of bullets in his direction. The copper grabbed hold of the arm around his neck and dropped to the floor, pulling his captor down and flipping him over, slamming him on to the dusty concrete floor. He drove his foot hard into the Irishman's head, and then again, before standing back to see if there was any more fight in him.

When it was clear that this man wasn't going to be giving him any more trouble, he turned his gaze on the two men shooting at what he fervently hoped was back-up. The girl was limp in O'Donnell's grip. He prayed she had only passed out. Suddenly O'Donnell became aware that his second was down and started to turn his Walther back towards the prisoner.

The policeman used every fragment of thought to will O'Donnell to move slowly and launched himself with a roar into the kidnapper, hearing the gun fire close to his head. O'Donnell fell backwards, dropping the girl and wrestling with the slight but strong man whose fists were pummelling him.

He never knew whose bullet hit the gas canisters, but as he heard the furious whoosh of rapidly expanding fireball, he threw himself over the girl's slender, unmoving body and protected her from the flames the only way he knew how. His wings blossomed as quickly as the explosion and covered all of the child, as she lay silent in the dirt.

***

Doyle sat on the back step of the ambulance, fighting off the ministrations of the young man who wanted to give him a blanket for the shock and, apparently, check his heart was still beating. Doyle could feel it still hammering in his chest, and knew there was no comfort for him in a square of felted wool.

From his seat he could see a lot of uniformed and plain clothes policemen milling around the remains of the warehouse, ambulance men wheeling out bodies – most of them dead, though thankfully not the girl, a sandy-haired, middle-aged man reprimanding a stocky, dark-haired man, and Zak, standing on the opposite side of the road, hands deep in his pockets, small dark eyes even more worried than usual.

Doyle raised an eyebrow in his direction and shrugged at the chaos around them. Zak shook his head sadly and motioned with his head towards a particularly greasy looking cafe to his right. Doyle nodded, tapped his watch and added a 'who knows when?' mime. Another small nod; the pretty, but thin, lips pursed, and Zak headed into the cafe to wait for him.

***

Half an hour passed before Doyle was allowed to slip away from the scene and could slide his denim-clad behind on to a plastic seat opposite Zak.

“Long time no see, Zak.”

“Raphael. Wish it could be under,” Zak paused, “more pleasant circumstances.”

“It's Ray now. You'd be surprised how few Raphaels there are working in the Met. And I take it that Mr Mountjoy has decided my talents are required somewhere even lovelier than London's East End. Lucky me.”

Zak looked at him and Ray felt the weight of 14 billion years boring into him. He shuddered.

“I'm sorry, R-Ray,” said Zak quietly. "Mr Mountjoy is recalling you. You can't pull stunts like that one and not expect him to notice."

Ray's eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he thumped the formica table ferociously, making the plastic sauce bottles totter over and the sugar lumps rattle against their stainless steel dish. “Was I supposed to let a four-year-old girl die? I presume it was divine bloody providence that put me on that corner in time to see her being dragged out of the car? Did he just want me to watch them kill her? Is that part of his fucking masterplan?"

Zak sighed. "I don't know, Ray. Mr Mountjoy doesn't exactly confide in me after harp practice. What I do know is that you've had a hundred run-ins with him, this was the last straw and he's calling you back."

Ray was still fizzing. "I won't go. I'd rather be cast out. If this is his fucking idea of a grand plan, I quit!" He threw himself out of the chair and then out of the cafe and stalked down the road, away from Zac and away from the crime scene.

***

**Six months later**

Ray lay on his front, awoken by the pale sunlight streaming through the too-thin cotton curtains in his flat. One arm was curled around his head, the other thrown out across the empty half of his double bed.

He groaned as the ache in his back filtered through his sleepy consciousness, and stretched gently to rouse his stiff muscles. The scars had pretty much healed, but he was beginning to doubt that the pain would ever fully leave him.

He opened one eye and brought the alarm clock into focus. Ten o'clock. On a day off. He was wondering if it was worth attempting to go back to sleep when the angry buzz of the doorbell shattered the peace of the flat. He groaned again, rolled out of bed and was heading out of the bedroom when he belatedly decided to go for some modicum of decency and put his dressing gown on.

He was tying a knot in the cord when the finger stabbed again on the doorbell, longer this time, more insistent.

“All right, all right, keep your hair on,” he muttered.

A man in a smart overcoat with heavy-rimmed spectacles and thinning sandy hair stood on his doorstep.

“Raymond Doyle.” The Scottish voice was brisk and authoritative.

Doyle leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe, yawned and said, “Who's asking?”

The man fixed him with an unamused glare. “I wasn't asking, DC Doyle, I was telling.” He held up his ID. “George Cowley, CI5”

Doyle's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He lazily pulled himself up and pushed the front door wide open. “You'd better come in, Mr Cowley.”

***

Cowley stood with his back to the living room window, a black leather document case clasped in one arm, his eyes roving over the pot plants and books on Doyle's shelves.

"Drink?" said Doyle.

"No thank you."

"What's this about then?"

Cowley's gaze flicked swiftly to Doyle. "I'd like to offer you a job, laddie."

Doyle laughed. "You what?"

"You did well at the Kings Street warehouse. I've been keeping an eye on you since then. Your record is impressive, Doyle. I take only the best and I think you could be exactly what I'm looking for right now."

Doyle quirked a questioning eyebrow.

Cowley sighed and pulled off his huge glasses. "Whitehall keeps sending me army officers and naval high fliers who are, no doubt, brilliant in the field of combat, but who struggle to grasp CI5's modus operandi. We fight fire with fire. We do whatever is necessary to protect this country, and I mean **whatever** is necessary.

"I need men like you, Doyle. Intelligent, determined, prepared to fight until you draw your last breath. And incorruptible." Cowley's dark eyes bored into Doyle, reminding him uncomfortably of Zak and making his shoulder blades itch. "You will be operating outside of the law as you are used to it, so your soul needs to be whiter than white. You'll be on the side of the angels, though you may have to use the devil's own tricks to get the right result."

Doyle remembered the atrocities he'd seen committed in the freezing, stinking trenches and quagmires of France, the bloody purges of Catholics, then Protestants, then Catholics again - death and pain inflicted in the name of _that bastard_ \- by people certain that in the black and white argument of morality, they were on the whitest side of right. Doyle knew there were a thousand shades of grey in any question of ethics, but he also knew he'd still throw himself between a four-year-old girl and a bullet any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

"Demons and angels. Different sides of the same coin in my book," he said.

"Indeed, Doyle. So, what do you say? Fancy joining the A Squad?"

Doyle smiled. "Where do I sign?"

***

George Cowley flicked through the file. The final assessment had come back, confirming everything the head of CI5 had guessed about his newest recruit, and yet still only scraping the surface. A complex man, Ray Doyle. A good one, but hot-tempered. An idealist with top-notch gun-handling skills. The man who tried to pin a single label on Doyle's back would probably find himself pinned to the floor, an arm twisted behind his back, getting an earful on psychology, morals and the stupidity of trying to sneak up on a man of Doyle's abilities.

Cowley dropped the file on to his desk and poured himself a finger of whisky. The image of another agent came to mind as he sipped his single malt. Equally complicated, but running cold, not hot. Another angel-cum-demon. A man in need of a new partner. Fire and ice. Bodie and Doyle. It might just be the perfect partnership. If they didn't kill each other in the first week.

***

"Sod off, Bodie."

Doyle shoved his partner back with a hand to his chest and stormed away across the car park and into the stairwell of the building behind them.

"Moody little git ain't 'e?"

Bodie spun on his heel and slammed the handcuffed man against the nearest hard surface - the ambulance that stood idling behind them. "You and your mates just killed a decent young man," he hissed, saliva flecking the face of the man who'd been stupid enough to try to sell stolen guns and grenades in Cowley's London. "He," Bodie jerked his head at the space where Doyle had been, "will have to tell an equally decent young woman why she won't be getting married next month."

He tightened his grip on the little runt's lapels and pushed him harder into the ambulance. "You should be grateful he didn't bloody kill you. I would have done."

Bodie unclenched his fists and the man cowered at the glare of dark eyes and the sneering curled lip. A uniformed policeman appeared and looked at Bodie questioningly. Bodie stepped back, nodded curtly and let the PC lead the man away.

Bodie sighed, pulled his gun out of his waistband and shoved it back in its holster. He started walking towards the stairs.

He didn't bother to check any of the lower floors. There was only one place Doyle would be in this mood. Bodie made his way up the ten floors, noting how much longer it seemed to take without Doyle's arse to follow, before pushing that thought as far away as he could. Wrong time, wrong place. Story of his sodding life.

***

Doyle sat on the edge of the roof. Muscle memory was trying to unfurl his wings and his chest felt heavy with their loss. He didn't mind the mortality, he certainly didn't miss Mr Mountjoy (though he worried about the implications of that), but he missed the wings. The power and the indescribable softness of the creamy white feathers.

He sighed sadly, remembering that he'd planned to stick one of those feathers on to Tucker's wedding card for luck. He cast teary eyes to the sky and shouted furiously towards the heavens, "It's going to have to be an amazing fucking plan to pay for this you bastard!"

"Didn't have you down as a believer."

Doyle turned to look over his shoulder at Bodie and gave him a bitter, crooked smile, "I believed in him for a while, but that was a very long time ago."

Bodie continued crossing the flat roof and carefully sat next to Doyle, legs dangling against the brickwork of the flats below.

"You don't have to talk to Jen," he said. "I could go, or..."

"I do," said Doyle, shaking his head.

Bodie clapped a hand on to his shoulder. "Then let me buy you a pint afterwards, eh?"

Doyle lifted his chin from his chest, his mouth curling faintly at the corners and nodded. "A proper pint though, mind," he said narrowing his eyes.

Bodie grinned back at him, raising three fingers in a salute, "Scouts' honour sunshine."

***

When Doyle had eventually walked into the King's Head, Bodie had taken one look at his face and seriously considered finding him the nearest punchbag instead. His partner was practically vibrating with fury, grief and frustration and Bodie knew that a pint, proper or not, would not be balm enough for Doyle this evening.

He pushed himself out of his seat and to the bar, where he turned his brightest Bodie beam on the barmaid and ordered a pint for Doyle and a variation of 'cloudy orange juice' for himself. "Could you stick a brolly in both of them?" he asked when she placed two glasses on the bar. She grinned and flirtatiously popped the paper umbrellas open before dropping them in the drinks. "All right, darlin'?" she said.

"Cheers love," he said slapping two pound notes on the polished wood. "Have one yourself." He winked at her and took the drinks over to where Doyle was fidgeting irritably at the table. He placed the cocktail in the middle of the table first and held up an open hand with an "Ah, ah, ah," as Doyle got ready to shout and/or punch him. "A proper pint, Ray. As promised," he said and put the brolly-bedecked bitter down in front of him. "Damn, I forgot to ask for a cherry. Shall I...?"

"Sit down, you berk."

"Anything you say, sunshine."

Ray carefully removed the green umbrella, dropped it into Bodie's cloudy orange juice and took a long pull of his pint before sliding it back on to the table. He dropped both elbows on to the table and covered his face with his hands. "Christ," he muttered. He pulled his head back so that just his mouth was now covered.

Bodie wasn't sure which gave him more trouble. Doyle's kissable lips uncovered, or his shapely cheekbones and sea-green almond eyes framed like this. On a good day those eyes glittered like the Mediterranean Sea, today they were as cloudy and dark as the Atlantic in November. Always beautiful though, whatever the shipping forecast.

"She didn't even blame me, Bodie. Just cried and hugged me and cried some more."

"Wasn't your fault."

"We started the same day you know? Me and Tucker. Not even four months ago and the poor sod's dead."

"Still not your fault."

Doyle glared at him and threw himself back in his seat, long legs sprawling in his obscenely tight jeans.

"You didn't throw the grenade. Not your fault." Bodie nodded at the pint. "You drinking that or hoping it's going to ferment some more?"

Doyle gave him one of his looks, but picked up the pint and downed a third of it. Bodie pulled his own glass towards him, nuzzled his way between the two brollies and drank as much as he could without getting poked in the eye. In spite of himself, Doyle chuckled at the sight. Bodie feigned injured pride but felt a little rush of warmth at getting a smile out of his partner.

"What is that anyway?" said Doyle, tipping more bitter down his throat.

Bodie composed his straightest face and said, "Slow comfortable screw. Want one?" and laughed himself sore as Doyle choked on his drink.

***

They had stayed for one more round, but although Bodie and the bitter had ironed out the worst of his tension, Doyle wasn't in the mood for the pub.

"Got some whisky at mine," he said. "Almost as good as Cowley's stuff."

Bodie nodded, drained his pint and stood up. He gestured with his hand for Doyle to lead the way. "Age before beauty," he said, winking cheerfully.

Doyle stalked past him, hissing into his ear as he drew level, "Pearls before swine, sunshine."

Bodie watched that magnificent arse sashaying towards the door and couldn't help but silently agree.

***

It had rained heavily while they had been drinking. London's streets almost looked clean, glittering under the streetlights. Occasionally a car would swish past on the shining tarmac, but otherwise this corner of the metropolis was as quiet as the grave.

It was only a five-minute walk to Doyle's flat and they walked in comfortable silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Bodie pulled from his reverie by the sight of Doyle bounding up the stone steps to his front door. It was more than a man could stand, he thought.

"Come on, sunbeam," said Doyle, holding the door open, "before you get arrested for loitering with intent."

"Like to see 'em try," growled Bodie, throwing himself up the steps and following Doyle into the building.

***

Bodie sank into the sofa and took the proffered tumbler of single malt. He raised it in a toast. "Tucker," he said.

Doyle stood in the half darkness, grasping the bottle in one hand and his own glass in the other. His voice cracked a little as he replied, "Tucker."

He sipped his drink, returned the bottle to the sideboard and slid on to the other end of the sofa. The only light in the room came from the streetlights and it caught all of Doyle's sharp edges, making him more beautiful than ever. Bodie ached to pull Doyle into his arms, card his fingers through those curls, press kisses to those gorgeous cheekbones... He needed to get out of here before the tell-tale bulge in his trousers became any more obvious. He sucked in a deep breath. "I gotta..."

"Really?" Doyle turned his attention from the glass in his hand to Bodie.

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say that you have to go home." Doyle's voice was husky now. "I'll say it again. 'Really?'"

Bodie's mouth was suddenly desert-dry. He clutched the whisky tumbler in a damp palm and tried to breathe normally. Doyle's face was unreadable. The light falling behind him turned his mop of curls into a halo and caught on the edge of his broken cheekbone. He tossed back the last of his whisky, put the glass on the coffee table and turned to face Bodie, eyes glittering, lips curling into a smile.

"Bodie," he whispered.

Bodie swallowed hard, threw his own whisky down his throat and rested the glass on his knee.

"Ray." It was half-croak, half-plea.

Doyle leaned towards him, heard the tense intake of breath, smothered a smile and pulled the glass out of Bodie's unresisting hand. Bodie heard it clink against the other tumbler on the table but couldn't look away from Doyle's face as he advanced along the sofa.

"Ah, Bodie," he sighed and slid his hand along Bodie's cheek. "Are you sure you won't stay a little longer?" He brought his thumb round and ran it along Bodie's jaw and then brushed it down his lips - so good at sneering and smiling and pouting. Doyle was sure they'd be good at other things too.

A small groan escaped Bodie's lips and Doyle dipped his head closer to capture them in a kiss. He felt as much as heard Bodie's sigh as he pressed his own mouth to his partner's. Gently at first, barely more than a featherlight brush, but Bodie brought his hands up to caress Doyle's face and pushed back, hungry for more.

Doyle grinned into the kiss and let Bodie's tongue invade his mouth, strong and hard, hot and wet, and almost regretted putting on the tightest of his figure-hugging trousers as his cock strained uncomfortably against the denim.

He let a hand stray to Bodie's groin and shivered with pleasure to feel his arousal through the corduroy.

"Christ, you are beautiful," he muttered, breaking free from the kiss and catching Bodie's bottom lip gently between his teeth for a moment.

Bodie's eyebrow made a familiar attempt to climb into his hairline. He slid his hands down Doyle's body and pulled at his hips to coax his partner into his lap. "And you," he said, nuzzling into Doyle's neck to kiss and lick and nibble at the skin, "have no idea what you do to me."

"Bo-die... I have got eyes in me head, mate." Doyle rocked gently in Bodie's lap sending a thrill of pleasure through both their groins. His eyes twinkled mischievously in the half-light and he kissed Bodie again, desire drumming an insistent beat in his cock. "Come to bed, Bodie. I want to take you up on your earlier offer."

Bodie frowned, struggling to remember offering anything other than a pint to his partner.

Doyle slid off him and held out a hand. "Slow and comfortable, Bodie. I promise."

Bodie barked a relieved laugh and let Doyle drag him upright. Doyle slid an arm around Bodie's waist to pull him close and rested his other hand on his cheek. Bodie put both arms around Doyle and slid his hands down to cup the arse he'd been admiring for the past four months. The movement pressed them closer together and the tightness in Doyle's jeans was now almost unbearable.

"Come on, sunshine, before something drops off."

Bodie kissed him, hard and urgent, then grabbed Doyle's hand and led him to the bedroom.

***

Bodie pulled Doyle towards him and finally ran his fingers through his partner's unruly mop of curls.

"Oh, Ray," he breathed.

Doyle smiled wickedly and stepped even closer.

"Come on then, beautiful. Where'd you wanna start?"

Bodie's hand slid out of Doyle's hair and his finger traced a line along that broken cheekbone, down Doyle's nose and came to rest on his mouth. Doyle parted his lips and gently bit the finger. Bodie gave up the smallest moan and Doyle, encouraged, pulled more of the finger into his mouth, sucking and licking at it; watching the pleasure flicker on his partner's face.

When Bodie could stand it no longer he clasped Doyle's face in both hands and kissed him, four months of pent-up desire finally released. Doyle had his hands at Bodie's back pulling his jumper up to get to the smooth skin beneath. Bodie followed his lead and broke off the kiss long enough to tug Doyle's T-shirt over his head, before dipping down to suck and lick his way along a collarbone. Doyle groaned, sending another pulse of lust straight to Bodie's cock.

He skimmed his hands lightly over Doyle's flanks, making him shiver and undid his partner's belt and button-fly, provoking a husky sigh from Doyle as the uncomfortable pressure on his cock was released at last. Bodie smiled to himself, pleased to find he was right in believing it wasn't possible to fit Doyle and underwear into those painted-on jeans.

Bodie dropped to his knees, pressing kisses to Doyle's taut, flat stomach and breathing in his woody, musky scent. Doyle had his fingers running through Bodie's hair now, whispering his name over and over, "Bodie, oh Bodie..."

Bodie flicked the tiniest tip of his tongue over the tip of Doyle's cock, the tang of the salty pre-cum spreading through his mouth while Doyle hissed above him and dug fingers into his scalp. Bodie tipped his face up to take in the view.

"Ray?"

Doyle's eyes fluttered open and he looked down at the man who had already saved his life twice. Bodie gazing up at him through long dark lashes, his deep blue eyes blown dark with desire. Bodie, the man he loved more than life itself. Bodie, on his knees and, unless he was wildly miscalculating, about to wrap those sinful lips around his cock.

"Bodie." His voice was thick with lust and want and need now.

Bodie's lips curled into a smile. "Just checking," he said and slid Doyle's cock into his mouth.

"Fuck!" growled Doyle, his world shrinking to the feel of Bodie's lips and tongue and mouth, the licking and sucking and sliding. He wasn't going to last long; he could feel the tight coil of orgasm gathering and gasped Bodie's name in warning.

Bodie, in reply, sucked harder and was rewarded by Doyle coming hard and noisy in his mouth. He softly released Doyle, and felt his partner trembling above him. He pushed himself up on his feet, brushed a kiss against Doyle's lips and led him to the bed.

They lay facing each other. Doyle looking more unworldy than ever with kiss-bruised lips, tousled hair and love bites on his collarbone. He reached out to Bodie's belt. Bodie caught his fingers in his hands and brought them up to his mouth to kiss them.

"Safety's off," he said, "on a hair-trigger release, I'd say."

Doyle quirked an eyebrow at him. "And?

"If you still want 'slow and comfortable' you'll need to keep your hands to yourself this time."

Doyle's chest constricted with love and pleasure at those last two words.

"Whatever you say, sunbeam."

Bodie kissed his fingers again before pulling off his clothes. Doyle slipped off the last of his own clothes and reached into the drawer of the bedside cabinet for lube. He offered it to Bodie who slicked himself and then his fingers. He dropped the tube to the floor and reached for Doyle, one finger sliding teasingly over puckered skin. Doyle growled and wriggled against Bodie's hand.

"That arse of yours," he muttered in Doyle's ear, "has been driving me fucking crazy for weeks." He pushed one finger inside Doyle, desire stoked by the combination of moans close to his neck and the hot tightness around his finger. He worked Doyle gently but expertly, quickly slipping a second and then a third finger inside.

Doyle was incoherent beneath him now. He lay already undone, head thrown back, his neck exposed, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, writhing against Bodie's hand, wanting more. Bodie buried his nose in Doyle's curls and inhaled, the scent making him giddier than ever.

"Ready, sunshine?"

"Been ready for weeks, mate."

Bodie grinned and slid his fingers out. Doyle sighed at the loss and then groaned as Bodie pressed his cock inside him instead. Bodie gasped at the heat so tight on his cock and slowly slid every inch of it into Doyle's arse. Doyle's breath escaped him in obscene sighs as Bodie slowly began to move. He brought his legs up to drape over Bodie's broad shoulders and let slip another string of happy curses at the new pleasures the change of position brought him.

Bodie's fingers pressed not ungently into the flesh of Doyle's rump, tightening their hold as he began to thrust faster and harder, amazed he hadn't come the moment his cock had brushed Doyle's arse and all too aware that this would be over in seconds not minutes.

"Oh god... Ray..."

He gazed down on Doyle, sprawled beneath him, fucking his hard-again cock with his fist and wondered if he would ever see his partner so debauched again.

"Don't stop now, Bodie."

"Just enjoying the view, sunbeam."

Doyle grinned up at him. "I'm getting quite the eyeful meself."

Bodie beamed back at him and began to move again. Quickly they fell into rhythm, Bodie's thrusts matching Doyle's strokes. As Doyle came again, Bodie fell over the edge into orgasm too, as quietly as Doyle was loud, before collapsing on top of his lover.

Doyle ran his clean hand through Bodie's hair and pressed a kiss to the edge of his mouth. "All right, mate?"

"Never better," mumbled Bodie into Doyle's chest.

"Glad to hear it," whispered Doyle.

***

Doyle let Bodie have first crack at the shower and, now clean himself, stood in the bedroom doorway, drying his hair on a towel and admiring the man asleep in his bed.

William Bodie had a body that would have had Michelangelo reaching for a chisel and the best hunk of marble he could lay his hands on. The man was a maniac of course, guaranteed to get up your nose at least once a day, but, thought Doyle, 'he's _my_ maniac'.

He dropped the wet towel in the laundry basket, turned off the hall light and went to climb into his bed.

Bodie stirred and rolled over to drape an arm around Doyle's waist. He nuzzled at Doyle's still damp curls and kissed his neck. Doyle turned his head to place a kiss on Bodie's forehead. "N'night, sunshine."

"Night, Ray. Love you."

"Love you too. See you in the morning."

***

Bodie woke first and found he was pressed against Doyle's back, one arm still wrapped around that slender torso, nose buried in the cloud of dark curls his partner called a hairstyle.

The pleasures of the night before came back to him and he smiled into Doyle's neck before making good use of his mouth and planting kisses there instead.

He was rewarded with a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl and took this as an invitation to keep going. He peeled himself away from Doyle's back and was starting to trace kisses down his spine when he stopped, horrified by the sight of two recently healed scars striped across his partner's back.

"Christ," he whispered.

The skin along Doyle's shoulder blades was pink and shiny, the edges of the scars puckering the otherwise smooth, creamy flesh. Bodie fought the instinct to trace a finger along the line of injury.

"Who did this to you, Ray?" Bodie's voice trembled with hurt and anger.

Doyle shifted and turned to face his partner. His eyes clear but dark as a million years this morning; Bodie struggled to hold his gaze.

"I could tell you, but then He'd have to kill me."

"What?" Bodie had that about-to-kill-somebody look about him.

Doyle shook his head, regretting the joke. "Just a disagreement with me old boss. Let's just say his severance package would have the Aslef boys reaching for their placards before you could get the strike ballot forms distributed."

"I'm serious Ray. Who bloody did this?"

Doyle ran his thumb along Bodie's stubbly chin and smiled sadly. "I wish I could tell you, Bodie, but even Cowley doesn't have the security clearance to know about the operation that led to ... that."

Bodie's face screwed up in disbelief. "Nobody's got higher security clearance than the Cow. Not even God!"

"Yeah, well, there's only one of them two I'd trust with me life and we both know which one that is."

Bodie caught Doyle's fingers and laced his own between them, running his thumb along Doyle's.

"Do they hurt?"

"Hardly at all now."

"Did I ... did I hurt you? Last night?"

Doyle laughed, that irresistible, irrepressibly filthy chuckle Bodie loved to hear and worked so tirelessly to provoke. "No, you berk!" He pulled his hand free of Bodie's and laid the palm on Bodie's cheek. "You didn't hurt me," he said seriously, before Bodie could take offence.

"You and me, Bodie. _This_. Something this right - it doesn't happen very often. It's a precious thing and I won't let anything or anyone fuck it up. I wish I could tell you about that bit of me life, but I can't. It's the only secret I'll ever keep from you though sunshine, okay?"

He hardly dared to breathe, watching and waiting for Bodie to make a decision.

Eventually the mischievous twinkle that put butterflies in Doyle's stomach danced in Bodie's dark blue eyes again. "I'll hold you to that, mate." He leaned in and kissed Doyle, hot and hungry. "Ready for a rematch, 4.5?"

"Thought you'd never ask, 3.7," laughed Doyle, memories of millions of lonely years banished by the warmth of Bodie's embrace. "Let's not waste a single second."


End file.
